


Wall Street is Our Street

by night_reveals



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Cop Fetish, M/M, Occupy Wall Street, Uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Occupy Wall Street supporter!Eames and Captain in the NYPD!Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wall Street is Our Street

**Author's Note:**

> Ficlet for the wonderful [Tonya](http://la-fours.livejournal.com/) per her request.

"Captain!" comes a voice from across the boisterous, surging crowd.

Arthur swings on his heel smoothly, not letting his spiking heart-rate show.

"What is it?" he asks, keeping his eyes roving, looking for threats. Right in front of him sprawls Zuccotti Park, its normally lush grass trampled underfoot by the hundreds of protestors screaming on and off, _People Over Profits_ and _Stop the Wars_. The weeks he's been here are dragging at him, digging into his skin. This morning he'd looked at himself blearily in HQ's bathroom mirror, his couch-cum-bed only ten feet and a door away, and barely recognized himself. There's been no time for him to read, or watch TV, or even decide whether he's doing the right thing in coming to work everyday. It's only constant threat-assessment, every minute heightened and grinding him down into something sub-human.

The officer who'd shouted for him stumbles almost into Arthur's arms, panting.

"There's -- there's a guy," he says, trying to catch his breath as Arthur helps him up. When the officer is righted, Arthur immediately drops his steadying arm.

"Yes?"

"He won't identify himself."

"And the problem is?" Arthur is already annoyed. People not identifying themselves -- big deal. Half the people in Zuccotti right now probably aren't even New Yorkers, and the rookie cops have been creating a media frenzy, what with arresting people right-and-left for no reason.

"We caught him scaling the side of the American Express building a few blocks down," says the plum-faced officer almost apologetically, as if sensing Arthur's disdain. "He'd cut a hole in a window before we got him down."

Well.

"Take me to him," says Arthur.

As soon as Plum-Face is turned, Arthur sighs and puts a hand to the bridge of his nose. An empty beer can sails past his head, but he doesn't bother turning around.

~*~

"This is him," says Plum-Face, whose badge, Arthur notices belatedly, reads _Officer Lindon_. They're in a relatively quiet area, where the two officers holding the would-be thief are obviously hoping to not be noticed by the crowd. Almost every arrest so far has been accompanied by jeers for the police and cheers for the arrested, so Arthur can hardly blame them. They walk up on a medic standing next to a sitting man clad all in black, his face down-turned, watching as his arm is slowly swathed in white bandages.

“He got caught on some glass on the way down,” explains Lindon to Arthur, and Arthur curses. So that’s why they’ve fetched a Captain; they managed to get some asshole hurt while detaining him. Jesus.

“Cheers,” says the man to the medic when she’s done.

“Alright, you,” start Lindon, sounding like he’s said this a few times. His jowls quiver, but Arthur can’t tell whether it’s in anger or fear. “Show us some ID.”

“Haven’t got any.” The man looks up, and notices Arthur for the first time, his eyes flicking the the assorted badges on Arthur’s jacket and the small, brass stripe on his shoulder. “Oh, you’ve brought me a Captain.” His eyes light up, and Arthur feels distinctly like what he imagines a mouse feels like when the shadow of a hawk passes over it, before he shakes off the feeling. This is no place for the dark pull at his belly or the clench of attraction he feels looking at a person-of-interest.

“Identify yourself,” presses Lindon. “Your passport? What's your social security number?”

Arthur barely manages to keep in his moan of exasperation. Really? This is what they learn in training, these days?

“He’s not American, Lindon,” Arthur says, wearily.

“Could be an immigrant, couldn’t I now?” says the man cheerily as he looks Arthur up and down. “Or I could be on an H1-B sponsored visa, or even an F-1 student. You know, going back to university isn’t just for the young-uns.” He has the gall to smile wider at Arthur, letting a tooth slide out.

“Unless we’re counting financial services, thievery isn't one of the listed categories of employment under the H1-B last I knew. And NYU and Columbia students are both all gathering at Zuccotti Park, didn’t you get the memo?” Arthur can’t help letting the sarcasm slide into his voice towards the end. The whole situation is ridiculous.

As if he’s happened upon a slab of gold in a pool of mud, the man’s posture and face opens up to Arthur, his arms dropping easily to his knees.

“I’ll tell you what my name is if _you_ ask,” he says, as if all he wanted was someone with more than half-a-brain to talk to.

“What’s your name, then?”

The man only gloats for a second, giving Arthur a few more assessing looks, but eventually he says, “It’s Eames.” He stands, and Lindon puts a threatening hand on the plastic strips he’s holding. Arthur waves him off.

“Last name?” asks Arthur, placing his hands on his hips.

“Oh,” says Eames. “I only give that out on the second date, darling.”

~*~

A few weeks later, after Eames has somehow charmed his way out of community service and American Express is inexplicably missing some damning paperwork, Arthur hangs up his uniform for the final time.

He learns Eames’ last name that very night.


End file.
